


Kiss and Tell

by stardropdream



Series: Kiss & Tell [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Sexual Content, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 07:38:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3200933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a kind of ease and happiness with being in bed to Porthos, whispering out his own misadventures. Or, all the times that Aramis and Porthos failed the "don't kiss and tell" rule, and the times that they did follow the rule.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kiss and Tell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jlarinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jlarinda/gifts).



> Taking Aramis' dumb "a musketeer doesn't kiss and tell" line from 2x02 and running with it. Also based off a prompt asking for Porthos & Aramis always talking about their various bf/gf adventures while in bed together. 
> 
> Please note the additional tags. Also note there are, by proxy of this prompt, other pairings involved both canon and otherwise. But portamis is the overarching, main pairing of the fic.

**Zero.**  
The first time they fall into bed together, it is a flurry of limbs and lips – laughter and smiling kisses that are sloppy and unsteady, explorative. And they’re unable to stop – just an overflow bursting into action, months of fleeting looks, covert words, and the kind of soundless understanding of mutual feelings. They do more laughing than they do kissing, until Aramis whines low in his throat and Porthos answers him in a low growl, tugging him down hard onto the bed, pressing him down, shifting up over him and kissing him into pleased silence. Aramis arches up, curls his arms around him, gasps his name and laughs more. 

“Finally,” he gasps out and swallows down around Porthos’ startled laughter, rocks his hips up to change that laugh into a hitching moan – can’t help but moan, too, when Porthos mimics the gesture. 

Their foreheads bump together, and there’s a strange elation, a strange kind of happiness that Aramis has never felt before –effervescent, sparkling – like falling in love without fear of falling too hard, without fear of the other falling softer. Because it’s Porthos. They’re friends, they’re brothers – for years now, they’ve seen the darkest parts of themselves, and he’s found that Porthos alone understands him completely. (Years from now, he’ll find that Athos and d’Artagnan are the same, but for now it’s just Porthos and he feels drunk with that alone.) 

It’s a feeling he embraces, curls his arms and legs around him, clings to him and laughs out his delight when he feels the hard slide of Porthos’ cock against his. They rut together through their clothes, kissing in messy bouts of happiness. 

“God, but,” Aramis laughs around a kiss, bites at Porthos’ lip, “I thought I’d just have to take you right there when you beat Thomas in that brawl.”

“As if I’d lose,” Porthos boasts, his grin infectious and Aramis ends up licking and kissing his teeth for his troubles, whining a little and trying to catch his lips in a smiling kiss – wide and smiling and _perfect._

“Oh, no, never,” Aramis agrees in his mirth, rocking his hips up. “I bet you could teach him a thing or two about… proper duels.” 

Porthos’ eyes are twinkling back – that same kind of effervescence that Aramis can’t shake, and he laughs with the thought of it, sees the flash of his own wickedness reflected back there. He feels drunk with it all, but floating up with a certain clarity that leaves him breathless at the same time. 

“I’m sure you know a thing or two, as well,” Porthos says, and his voice is softer now, honeyed, and Aramis shudders and squirms happily as they make room between them, tugging at belts and weapons and coats until they’re flushed and naked, pressed together. “Fuck,” Porthos says, “You’re really pretty.” 

Aramis tilts his chin up, flips his hair out of his eyes and just beams at him. “Prettier than Thomas?” 

“Prettier than any man or woman,” Porthos affirms with such sincerity that Aramis nearly blushes from it – a ridiculous thing. Instead he just preens a little beneath the attention. 

“I’m sure you’ll break Monsieur Thomas’ heart with such talk,” Aramis says, prim. 

“Fuck Thomas,” Porthos laughs. 

“Well, no, I’d rather you fuck me – mmm!” Aramis breaks off with a laugh as Porthos prods his fingers against his ribs, tickling him, and rolls over so that Aramis is pressing down on top of him, and they laugh and grin at each other, senseless and heavy with their own happiness. 

“Oh yeah?” Porthos laughs. “Tell me what you’d do if you were fucking him instead – if he’d actually managed to win.” 

Aramis laughs again, louder this time, still intoxicated with it all – and considers Porthos, running his hands down his chest, tracing over scars. He feels the heavy press of Porthos’ hands at his back and he arches a little, biting his lip around a smile. 

“How do you know I haven’t already?” 

Porthos barks out a laugh. “Have you?” 

“Not Thomas, but there was this one time with his sister…” Aramis trails off and waits for the appreciative growl from Porthos, who grins at him – wicked and sincere and utterly devastating in his beauty. “Shall I go by it point by point?” Aramis asks and wiggles his hips, and they both moan as their cocks press together again. “I don’t mind the excruciating detail.” 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, breathless. His hand drops down, curls around the both of them, strokes them to full hardness. Aramis arches and squirms, happy. 

The next morning, Aramis is starry-eyed and his hair is a mess, and Porthos is nestled next to him, kiss-bruised all down his neck and shoulders and looking entirely too pleased and entirely too smug, and he’s grinning at him and Aramis feels he could very happily drown in those dimples forever.

“So?” Porthos asks. “How was it?”

“Porthos, please,” Aramis sighs, places a hand on his chest and knows he’s just as covered – if not more so – in bite marks. He knows he sounds ridiculous when he says, “A musketeer never kisses and tells.” 

It’s worth it for Porthos’ booming laughter and strong arms wrapping around him, pulling him in and kissing him deep and demanding. 

And that’s how it starts, really. 

 

 **One.**  
There are days when Aramis wonders to himself how he managed to go so long without stripping Porthos down, without understanding and mapping out every inch of his skin. He wonders how he managed to resist for as long as he has, how he managed to withstand Porthos’ gravity – constantly fluxing back towards him, all smiles, all laughter, all this strange effervescence that he can’t shake. Happiness. Security – not just in his friendship, but in his affections. 

They spend many nights trading soft kisses, held in one another’s arms – that kind of fading from kisses to lazy sex and back to kissing again. They lapse into sleep and fall out of it again with just a few simple words and soft touches – and there’s that kind of naked understanding that passes between the two of them, a mutual assurance and understanding, a security born from knowing each other as long as they have and knowing they don’t have to hide a single thing. 

Sometimes it’s nights in a row and sometimes they can go weeks where the only touch between them is a fleeting touch, a brush of shoulders together, a hand at his back guiding him along. Even without the pleasure of stripping Porthos down, Aramis never doubts that Porthos is by his side, that there are things left unsaid. 

They spend nights together where kisses become soft-spoken words, Aramis recounting the young mademoiselle he’d recently taken to bed, or the lonely widow who pulled him in off the street when he started to rain, called him a poor dear and fed him dinner and then he repaid her kindness time and again through the night. He whispers the words in Porthos’ ear, elicits the appropriate laughter, the moans of delight as Aramis recreates some of his finer moves against Porthos’ skin, all lips and teeth and tongue. 

He delights in those moments – when the joy is too full in Porthos’ eyes and he can do nothing but laugh. His laughter, the sound of Aramis’ name on his lips in those moments – those are his favorite sounds in the entire world and he lives for the moment when he can draw it out of Porthos. Hands on his hips, lips on his chest, his neck, his throat, the curve of his jaw – anywhere he can reach. Just pressed close to him, feeling the steady, gruff scratch of his laughter hitting him down to his core. 

“I should take you along some time,” he says once in the middle of a story recounting his most recent widow and Porthos’ laughter is booming and almost loud enough to ache. 

“And miss out on your retellings?” Porthos teases, hand slipping to curl around his cock. “Tell me, just how large are you again? Just how many times did you get her to come? I think the numbers grow the more you tell me this story.”

Aramis laughs and kisses him, whines out when Porthos just teases at him, palm sliding down over his cock. 

There’s an ease with it all – and many nights pass like this: trading kisses, trading stories, bringing each other off with a gentle kind of ease and an unhurried reassurance. Aramis has never felt happier. 

They each have a thing they love best, really, when with each other – Porthos, despite himself, likes it slower even if he lacks the patience to tease Aramis as badly as Aramis teases him. Aramis likes to drive Porthos to the edge, until he’s done holding back and he’ll use that brute strength of his to drive Aramis down into the mattress. He likes it best when Porthos’ lips part with his sharp, breathless moans and it’s clear that he’s only thinking about how to make the two of them feel good, rather than fearing he’ll hurt him. Porthos likes the way that Aramis never seems satisfied with just touch, always driving for more, always digging in a little deeper, always wriggling and moaning and gasping out his name like it’s some kind of salvation. 

And what they both like, undoubtedly, is to draw out the specters of comrades in the bedroom – even when just the two of them. Today, Porthos is laying worship to Aramis – lips curled tight around his cock and suckling, fingers pressing deep into him and spreading him open, and Aramis is shuddering and thrashing. 

“Can you imagine it, though?” Porthos whispers against his hip when he draws back for breath. “How tight you’d feel, with both of us inside you?”

Aramis moans weakly. His hips shudder upwards – Porthos, incredibly talented with his mouth, also knows exactly what to say to make Aramis lose himself. 

“He’d get that little furrow in his brow he gets,” Porthos whispers, tongue curling around the head of his cock and sucking him down. He doesn’t speak for a long moment, of course, in favor of focusing on that, but Aramis is more than happy to curl his fingers tight into Porthos’ hair, keep him close, rock his hips up. 

“Mm, and so focused,” Aramis whines out, his mouth half-open in pleasure and unable to breathe properly around rocking his hips up into Porthos’ willing mouth. 

And then he’s fingering into Aramis again, fingers slicked up, and Aramis _sobs_ with pleasure, Porthos’ fingers wide and thick inside him, filling him. He rubs his fingers inside of Aramis too lightly to be anything other than a tease. 

“Like that?” Porthos asks as he drags his lips down his cock. “He’d be gentle at first, you know, you’d finally know what it’s like for me when you’re at your worst teasing.” 

“ _Porthos…_ ” Aramis gasps out. 

Porthos hums in agreement, adding another finger and stretching him wide. He’s slicked and opened already from earlier, a moment together that was both quick and savoring, over too soon. It’s late in the evening now, a bottle of wine abandoned on the table in the corner, their clothes in various piles on the floor, one boot at the foot of the bed and the other sitting rather precariously on the windowsill. 

A low moan, far too loud, escapes as Porthos’ tongue joins the fingers, stretching him open, leaving him a mess, falling apart, flushed hot and fingers digging hard into his hair, drawing him in closer. Porthos presses kisses over his thighs, tongues at his balls and slides up along the underside of his cock, fingers working into him steadily. 

“More,” Aramis moans, “Tell me more.” 

“You know how full you feel when I’m inside you?” Porthos asks, dragging his teeth down his thigh. “How you feel like you can never get enough?” 

“ _Yes_ ,” Aramis groans. 

“We’d have to work you open together, both our fingers and my cock inside of you. He’d be so careful. He doesn’t know how much you can take – he doesn’t know yet how badly you want it, how good you are about taking it.” 

Aramis whines. “Porthos, please…” 

They know each other so well, Porthos knows his body so well – that he hardly even needs that beg, hardly needs more encouragement to know to shift up, to press down over him, to stroke his cock to slick it up and then slides into him easily. He knows the shift and arch of Aramis’ body as well as Aramis knows it himself. And Aramis does arch, curls his arms and legs around him and draws him down. 

“Athos would kill us if he heard us talking about him like this,” Porthos murmurs against his ear, bites at the shell of it and then kisses down along his jaw as he waits for Aramis to adjust to the girth of him. 

Aramis laughs, though, delighted. “Or he’d want to join in.”

“Hm,” Porthos hums, and at the encouraging roll of Aramis’ hips, sets a steady pace of rocking into him, biting back a moan. “It’s true that few can resist you for long.” 

“You certainly couldn’t,” Aramis purrs and is rewarded with a deep, biting kiss for his troubles, harsh enough to bruise in just the way he likes. He hums out happily, melting into his touch. 

“No, I definitely couldn’t,” Porthos murmurs when he pulls back, his grin wide and infectious and Aramis finds himself laughing, giggling almost, just delighted and high on the feeling and touch of it all. “How long until you get him into your bed, you think?” 

“Far sooner if you’re there with me, too,” Aramis drawls out, and wriggles his hips. “Now fuck me, Monsieur.” 

Porthos is happy to oblige. 

 

 **Two.**  
“And then she dragged her nails down hard across my torso – I had marks for days. Days, Porthos! You can still see them if you squint,” Aramis says, and squirms accordingly for Porthos to get the look at Adele’s handiwork, marks from two hands dragging down his back. He arches his back in the way that always makes him look best, if only so Porthos can properly appreciate it. 

Porthos hums from beside him, on his side, propping his head up with one hand and watching him. He reaches out and brushes the pads of his fingertips down his back, over the marks, and Aramis sighs out, arching up. The hiss he lets out is one of pain and pleasure, a mixing that Aramis has always enjoyed and Porthos has always accommodated him for. 

“You know I think it’s a bad fucking idea,” Porthos says – which he says every time, if only to remind Aramis. 

“Yes,” Aramis sighs, tilting his head back and Porthos take the invitation to sit up a little and lean in, kissing and biting down his neck. He threads his fingers in Porthos’ hair. “But I know you also approve. You love the idea of me getting away with something that ‘belongs’ to the Cardinal. And Adele is lovely.” He tilts his chin back defiantly. “Porthos, I love her.” 

“Just be careful, you idiot,” Porthos says, licking and kissing over his adam’s apple and working his way down to lick at the dip of his clavicle. Aramis hums. He threads his fingers through his hair. “So what’d she do after?” 

“I knew you liked hearing about her,” Aramis says and kisses the top of Porthos’ head as his teeth drag down along the ridge of his collarbone. He sighs and squirms a little, petting his fingers through his hair. “Well – then she rode me.” 

“There’s gotta be something between the two points – how could she ride you if she’s dragging her nails down your back?” 

“See, I _knew_ you loved the details,” Aramis delights with a soft laugh. 

“You caught me.” He bites at his neck. “She the only one you’ve been with since last week?” 

“Oh, no, there’s the lovely Madame de la Roux. And of course Sophie. And there was an instance with the lovely Mademoiselle Bernard.” 

“Tell me?” 

“After I tell you how Adele got from marking me to riding me,” Aramis tuts. “Porthos, my dear, you need to be more patient.” 

Porthos growls and shoves him down, climbs up over him. “I’ll show you patience.” 

“And that’s a pretty good demonstration of how she got from my back to my front, yes,” Aramis sighs and then grins up at him as Porthos leans down and kisses him quiet. 

 

 **Three.**  
“Porthos,” Aramis starts and then seems to think better of it, falling silent and looking down at his hands. It’s a rare day that Aramis can look guilty and even rarer when he actually means it, actually feels the weight of that guilt dragging him down further and further.

Porthos looks up at him, waits for him to speak, and sighs out when Aramis says no more, too guilty to even finish the sentence. He towels Aramis’ hair dry until it fluffs up beneath the old shirt he’s using to dry him off. The one towel he owns is hanging by the little fire, drying from where he’d swept down Aramis’ body to dry him out. His clothes, waterlogged and muddy from kneeling before graves five-years-old hang by the fire as well, drying out. 

“You can tell me,” Porthos prompts, gently, assuming it’ll be a revisit from the ghost of Aramis-of-five-years-ago – of helping him soothe down into sleep, of holding him when the nightmares rouse him, of reassuring him that there is no shame in surviving, no shame in living. 

“Forgive me,” Aramis says, voice thin and quiet. 

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Porthos dismisses, but Aramis seizes him by his arms, grips tight. 

“There is,” he insists, looking at him, shifting a little so that he’s on his knees before Porthos, hands lifting to cup his face. Porthos sighs out, drops the shirt so he can slide his fingers into the fluffed up hair instead, thumbs circling gently at his temples. 

“Then I forgive you,” Porthos says, as easy as that. 

Aramis shifts, almost protesting, but Porthos just smiles at him easily, his expression gentle – and Aramis knows that he’s lost, knows that he’s drowning. His heart is heavy with musketeers long dead, heavy with saying goodbye to a long lost friend. But Porthos’ hands in his hair are a comfort. 

“… Just hold me?” Aramis whispers, as if afraid of the answer – as if there could be any response other than for Porthos to take him into his arms and hold him. Porthos says it in his smile, that gentle, lopsided curve that means he thinks Aramis is being foolish. 

Porthos pulls him in, cradles the back of his head with one hand, his other arm curled snug around him, keeping him close. Aramis closes his eyes, just sinks against that touch, lets himself feel that comfort, that security, that reassurance. Porthos rocks him a little for a moment before he just falls still, his arms secure around him. 

They stay like that for several minutes, neither moving and neither letting go of the other. Porthos just holds him, strokes his hand over his back, one hand curling into his hair and keeping him there. Aramis breathes out, shaky, but not daring to let himself cry. 

But there is comfort there. There’s always been comfort in Porthos’ arms – since the very beginning, since the very moment that he reached out and found Porthos taking his hands. There’s been comfort since the moment he returned from Savoy, wrecked and broken, and Porthos had looked at him as if he were precious, as if there was nothing more sacred than seeing Aramis step back into the garrison after such a long absence, after Porthos had spent weeks believing him dead. 

He closes his eyes to it all, his breath hitching, and Porthos is there, lips against his ear, a gentle shushing noise. “I’ve got you. You’re alright.” 

Aramis’ breath hitches one last time and he blinks his eyes open, trying to banish the tears, trying to banish this crippling, suffocating unhappiness. 

“Marsac died five years ago,” he whispers. “It just took this long for everything else to catch up.”

“It’s alright to mourn,” Porthos murmurs, voice quiet. There’s a thread of anger there that Aramis knows isn’t directed at him, rather a hatred that boils down low towards Marsac – but hearing it is enough to send Aramis through another wave of guilt. He presses his face to Porthos’ shoulder, tries to steady himself. Porthos whispers, “He was your friend.” 

“No,” Aramis whispers, and draws back so he can look at Porthos’ face when he says this. “He was more than just a friend to me.” 

“You loved him,” Porthos says, and there’s no sign of surprise or disgust on his face – just a deep, bone-aching sadness. 

Aramis closes his eyes – says nothing. But he doesn’t have to say it for Porthos to know. 

“Then he’s all the more a fool,” Porthos mutters, heated. 

Aramis shakes his head, ducks it down so he won’t have to look at Porthos. “I won’t allow for you to say a bad word of him.” 

Porthos is silent, but Aramis can feel the anger rolling off him, can feel the tension building in his shoulders and Aramis can’t breathe, can’t speak – the idea of Porthos’ anger directed at him, even when he knows it’s directed at Marsac, enough to suffocate him. The idea of losing Porthos at all is unbearable. The idea of being without Porthos is too much. 

He grips his shoulders tight. “Everyone I care about leaves me, one way or another.” 

Porthos is silent still and the words lodge in Aramis’ throat as everything slides into place for him, as he understands, fully, just how deeply, just how expansive it’s grown – just how deeply and fully he’s come to rely on Porthos. He tightens his hold on his shoulders, looks up at him desperately, eyes wide and glassy – but he won’t. He won’t cry. He couldn’t cry for his lost brothers, he couldn’t cry for Marsac, so he can’t cry for this. 

“Porthos,” he whispers. 

Porthos lifts his hands, mimics the tight hold Aramis has on him – hands closing around his shoulders, protective. 

“I’m here,” he says, quiet, sure. “And I’ve got you.” 

Aramis blinks back tears rapidly, laughs out in a brittle little cough of air. He holds to Porthos, unable to let go. He blinks up at Porthos, his lungs filled with stale air and unable to exhale just yet. He swallows, thick. 

When he speaks, his voice is quiet, low and graveled out. “He was my first friend upon joining here. He was – he was kind. He felt the same as I did – he didn’t want to be alone.” Porthos says nothing and Aramis is grateful for it, shifting closer again to press his forehead to Porthos’ chest, listens to his heartbeat. “I didn’t just mourn the day all those men died. I mourned because I had lost _him_. Because I knew I’d never see him again.” 

Porthos’ hands lift and curl into his hair. 

Aramis breathes out, shakily. “And then here he was again – and I couldn’t… I couldn’t turn my back to him. I couldn’t let him go again. And I killed him for his troubles.” 

Porthos’ head drops, resting against the top of Aramis’ head. He feels and hears the steady rise and fall of his breath. 

“I was so happy when we first… grew closer,” Aramis whispers.

“You don’t have to tell me if it’s too much,” Porthos mutters, and Aramis keeps expecting that anger, keeps expecting that disgust – but there’s nothing, just that same aching sadness. 

“No,” Aramis whispers. “Let me tell you.” 

“I’ll listen,” Porthos replies, and he doesn’t move or stop touching Aramis throughout his entire story – and Aramis tells him all. 

He holds him through the night, still except when Aramis rouses him with his nightmares. He holds him steady, holds him close – with quiet whispers that he’s got him, that he’s here, that he’s not going away. 

 

 **Four.**  
“Do you hate me for it?” Aramis asks, and his hands aren’t shaking and his heart isn’t heavy with it – Charon, dead by his own hand. But he feels no regret. He feels no guilt. Only that he should be sad on Porthos’ behalf. But he remembers the look Porthos gave him over his shoulder, remembers the care with which Porthos had laid Charon’s body out to rest. He can’t blame Porthos for hating him, should it be – and he can’t be sorry for it, if it meant that Porthos was still alive and breathing. 

“No,” Porthos says after a deep exhale, and Aramis knows he isn’t lying – knows that Porthos would never lie to him, that Porthos has always been too truthful, always been too loyal and true. 

“But it still hurts,” Aramis whispers. 

“For a long time, he was all I had. He and Flea. They were my family.” Porthos isn’t looking at him but there’s that quiet hitch of his breath that means that he’s upset, that he’s holding back tears – and Aramis’ own heart breaks in turn. He’s stepping forward, he’s stepping to him, he’s pressing to his back and wrapping his arms around him, holding tight and fast. Porthos doesn’t push him away – would never push him away. 

A hand touches his where Aramis’ rest on his chest, holding him. He threads their fingers together and Aramis breathes out a sigh of relief. 

“Let me…” Aramis begins, takes a step back, guides Porthos back towards the bed, pushes him down, climbs up over him. He kisses him, not for the sake of undressing him or pulling him from the deep sadness – but more as a reassurance, more as a reiteration of their life sparking between them. Porthos arches up a little, sighs out in that sad little exhale, and kisses him back. 

They don’t do anything other than kiss, slow and quiet and pained – Aramis strokes his fingers through Porthos’ hair, kneads at the back of his neck, traces his fingertips over his neck and shoulders, tries to coax out a smile even though he can never blame Porthos for feeling what he feels. 

When they draw back, after what feels like hours of just breathing each other in, Aramis presses his forehead to his, bumps his nose to his, smiles at him. Porthos doesn’t smile back, but there’s a softness to his expression as he looks up at him. Aramis traces his fingers over his jaw. 

He sighs out. 

“Did you and Charon ever…?” Aramis asks and as soon as he does, he regrets it, if only for the spark of pain that flashes across Porthos’ face, his eyes widening as he’s stretched out beneath Aramis. 

Aramis almost takes it back, but then Porthos says, quietly, “No. Never.” 

“… Did you want to?” Aramis asks. Hates that he does, but unable to stop himself from doing so. “Did you love him?” 

Porthos is quiet, closes his eyes, breathes out. 

“Yeah,” he says at last. “I think I did.” 

He opens his eyes, stares up past Aramis’ head at the ceiling – his thoughts far away to another life, distant and lost. Aramis shifts to press their foreheads together again, strokes his fingers over his cheeks and into his hair, anchoring him back down again. When he blinks his eyes open, Porthos is watching him, expression soft. 

“Sorry,” he says.

“As if you have anything to apologize for,” Aramis whispers. “Forgive me. I brought up painful memories.” 

“No,” Porthos sighs. “You just reminded me of what I have now.”

And his fingers tangle in Aramis’ hair, and Aramis closes his eyes, leans into the touch – sighs out. If he’s honest to himself, honest to the quiet part of himself, he knows how far gone he is – knows how far deep he is when it comes to Porthos. That Porthos is _different_ from all the rest – far different from even Isabelle, forever the love of his life, lost to him though she may be. With Porthos, there’s an ease, there’s a lightness – with Porthos, he never has to pretend, never has to be stronger than he feels, never has to be anything other than Aramis. Broken, uncertain, and imperfect. But still precious beneath Porthos’ touch.

He hopes that Porthos might think of him the same – but he doesn’t dare ask. He lacks Porthos’ honesty, lacks the ability to always wear his heart open and honest and there. 

“You have me,” Aramis whispers. “I’ll never go away.”

“Good.”

“You never go away, either,” Aramis demands before he can think better of it, his hands curled tight in his hair.

“Never,” Porthos agrees. 

 

 **Five.**  
“Come on,” Porthos laughs. He tugs, playful, on a wisp of Aramis’ hair – a gentle, affectionate gesture that always leaves Aramis feeling breathless. “There’s no way you two didn’t sleep together.” 

“Your lack of faith in me is disturbing, my friend,” Aramis says back, placing a hand innocently over his chest and tilting his head to the touch, hoping that Porthos will tug his hair again. He does, his smile small and lopsided as he looks at him. 

“You two were alone together for days,” Porthos insists. His fingers, thick and beautiful, curl around his hair until his fingers are threaded there, knocking his hat askew. Aramis rights it with a small sniff. 

Part of Aramis thinks he should be affronted but instead he just feels a small kind of amusement. He can’t even be properly outraged at Porthos as it turns out – especially when he’s smiling at him like that, especially when he’s teasing him as he is. He says, as prim and proper as he can manage, “I assure you, I did not sleep with the lovely Agnes.” 

“You definitely wanted to, though,” Porthos decides, sure-footed as ever. 

“… Well, yes. But her heart belonged to only one man.” 

He attempts to say it jokingly, but it comes out a little stuttered, and Porthos looks up at him, distracted away from where he’s playing with Aramis’ hair. He sits up a little straighter and pulls his hands back so he can slide them along Aramis’ waist, settle at his hips. 

“Hey,” Porthos says. 

“I’m alright,” Aramis preempts before Porthos can begin to fret. He doesn’t look entirely convinced, so Aramis just removes his hat with a sigh, runs his hands through his hair and looks anywhere but at Porthos, collecting his thoughts. 

He hates to see that frown on Porthos’ face, though, and he gives him a slightly helpless look as he shifts closer. Aramis sighs, adjusting a little so he can sit in Porthos’ lap more comfortably, straddling him. He drapes his arms over his shoulders, curls one hand absently into his hair if only to keep him close. 

“She was… a very devoted woman,” he settles on, and this time he doesn’t bother to keep the sadness from his voice. He knows that Porthos will understand. He always does. He’s too kind, in so many ways – his wonderful, caring Porthos. 

“You loved her,” Porthos decides, although it isn’t necessary for him to say it aloud – they both know it’s true. 

“Yes,” Aramis says anyway, voice soft. 

Porthos leans in and kisses him – not teasing, just gentle and understanding. Aramis melts against him. 

“You wanted to go with her,” Porthos whispers against his lips, drawing back enough just to press their foreheads together. It’s a tired and true motion for the two of them, as easy as breathing now – breathing together, seeking one another’s comfort. Aramis settles every time with this, comforted more than he’ll ever be able to express. 

Aramis sighs out, bumps his nose to his and takes a moment to find his words – although he does not protest. Porthos doesn’t expect him to, he knows. Porthos understands him better anyone.

“… Would you be angry with me if I said yes?” Aramis asks quietly. 

“No,” Porthos says, with no hesitation. “I think – even if this is ‘home’, there are still parts of us that long for other things. With you, it – I know what it is you long for.” 

Aramis sighs out. 

“I think Henri would benefit from having a father,” Aramis says. “She told me that he already has one – that he’ll know his father every day with how she’ll speak of him. But can that be enough? I thought…”

Porthos is uncharacteristically still and Aramis belatedly realizes how quickly he’s strayed to a topic of conversation that usually leaves Porthos moody and uncertain. Aramis is about to apologize but Porthos just shakes his head, hands lifting to cup his face. 

They watch each other, saying nothing – the apology stuck in Aramis’ throat, and Porthos looking at him as if holding the world in his hands. His expression softens and he sighs out. 

“They’d have been lucky to have you,” Porthos says, and then adds, “But you’d have been so bored.” 

Aramis laughs, can’t exactly protest it even if his heart aches with thoughts of holding Henri, of holding Agnes, of making her feel just as loved and cherished as she felt with her husband. Of making her forget, of making her move on – even if he knows better than anyone how impossible it is to forget a true love. 

Porthos’ fingers rub small circles into his scalp and he shivers, sinking down, melting into him. 

 

 **Six.**  
Aramis lays worship to Porthos’ cock, all tongue and lips, even the smallest brush of his teeth at the head that never fails to make Porthos gasp and rock up desperately into his mouth. His hand curls tight around the base, holding him still as he laves his tongue and pillows his lips down over him, swallowing him down – making it messy because that’s what Porthos likes, because Aramis likes it when he’s choking on him, when he can’t think of anything but having Porthos and showing Porthos just how much he cares if only by sucking his brain out through his cock. Regardless, he’s good at what he does, doing the thing with his tongue that he knows always makes Porthos’ moans melt into muffled, startled shouts of pleasure. 

He curls his tongue tight around him, strokes down and bobs his head, taking him in deep, moaning around him, thick and heavy on his tongue, filling his mouth, unable to breathe for want of getting him down as deep as he can go. 

He does draw away, though, if only because he’s panting and he does need to breathe, because actually, literally choking on Porthos’ cock is something of a mood killer for all that Porthos would notice – his hands are fisted tight in Aramis’ hair, head tilted back, hips quivering with the force of not thrusting up hard into his mouth. 

“And then?” Porthos huffs out around a heaving breath, tugging hard on Aramis’ hair, trying to lead him back towards his cock. 

Aramis smiles, heavy and smug, and licks once at the cockhead but resists Porthos’ hold on him. Porthos groans. 

“And then,” Aramis agrees, “I was down between the pretty Sophia’s legs as she read her poetry aloud, explained to me the positions of the planets, as it were, and I just shifted a little closer, let my mouth brush…” And he pauses enough to mimic the gesture, although the lovely Sophia certainly lacked a cock, the concept was similar, his tongue brushing just lightly at the head, before he closes his mouth around it, suckling gently. Porthos moans. “And then,” Aramis continues, “she lost her place in the stanza.” 

“Hmm,” Porthos agrees, arches his hips to try to press his cock into Aramis’ mouth, which from anyone else would be the height of rudeness but only serves to make Aramis laugh. He nips lightly at Porthos’ hip, strokes his hand down over his cock in a steady beat instead, stroking just enough to send him to the edge but backs off before Porthos can be in danger of spending himself. 

“But there was a lovely gentleman just beside me who offered the next verse despite his preoccupation between Mademoiselle Eloise’s legs.” And then Aramis laughs, “Why, I do believe that was you, Porthos!” 

“So it was,” Porthos agrees and then his moan stutters out into a loud laugh, thick with his arousal and amusement at once – and there’s never been a sound that Aramis loves more than that. “But I like that poem.”

“Of course, my love,” Aramis agrees, peppering kisses over his hips and thighs as he strokes steadily over his cock. “Let’s see… and then?”

“And then,” Porthos agrees, grinning, breathless but laughing, “Mademoiselle Eloise continued reading aloud the philosopher Descartes.”

“Mmm,” Aramis hums, kissing over Porthos’ stomach, licking at his scars. 

“And just as she was getting to the crux of his argument, she grabbed at my hair and pulled me in closer, demanded that I pay her better attention before she began to suspect I’d rather be servicing Monsieur Descartes,” Porthos sighs, and doesn’t seem the least bit perplexed by the demand – in fact, the memory of it serves to only make him grin wider as he looks down at Aramis, who bats his eyelashes at him, dragging his lips and teeth down over his skin. Porthos arches accordingly, wriggles his fingers through his hair and down the back of his neck, kneading his encouragement. “So I of course redoubled my efforts.”

“Mmm, you did that thing with your fingers?”

“Just one to start,” he says. “Not everyone can handle three right away as you can.” 

“Why, Porthos,” Aramis gasps, laughing, “Are you implying that I’m wretchedly decadent?” 

“So I am, Monsieur,” Porthos simpers. 

Aramis lifts up onto his elbows and crawls up Porthos’ body, pressing down against him and kisses him thoroughly, enough that he knows that Porthos will taste himself on Aramis’ tongue. They trade a heated kiss, hands running down over one another in earnest. 

They soon descend into a giggling mass, grinning at each other, recounting stories and pulling on each other, hands dragging, nails scraping, Aramis rutting so that their cocks slide together Porthos nibbles and bites at his bottom lip. 

“So who came first, darling? Was it Eloise or was it Sophia?” Aramis says aloud, his voice lilting in his satisfaction. 

“Definitely Eloise,” Porthos says with a wicked grin as he swipes his tongue over Aramis’ lip.

Aramis laughs, quietly, kisses over his jaw and squirms closer to him, breathing Porthos in. “You were under her skirts. I doubt you could see just what I was doing to Sophia.” 

“I could hear her protesting fine enough,” Porthos laughs, breathless. His hand closes around Aramis’ cock, strokes once and Aramis keens and arches his back, arms shaking as he holds himself up above Porthos. 

Porthos grins at him, curls his arms around him and rolls them over so that Aramis is blinking up at him. Porthos waggles his eyebrows twice and then starts kissing down his chest, working his way down. 

“Shall I demonstrate what was making Eloise so vocal around her philosophy?” Porthos asks as he drags his teeth down the line of Aramis’ stomach. 

“Please,” Aramis whispers, feeling overfull already with just watching the way Porthos moves, the way he smiles, the way he looks up at him as he drags his mouth down over Aramis’ cock. 

They get each other off around their laughter, around stories of Sophia and Eloise both – and then Lilianna and Yvonne. Aramis cries out and arches, thrusts into Porthos’ mouth and comes between Porthos’ smiling lips. He says his name aloud as he comes, laughing and breathless.

Porthos also laughs, drinks him down, cleans him up with swipes of his tongue and crawls back up to him, reciting out the poem that Yvonne ended up shouting at the end of Aramis’ quick tongue. Aramis laughs more, effervescent as he always is with Porthos, flushed and sated, and drags his hands down Porthos until he can bring him off, too, on memories of Ninon’s scholars. 

 

 **Seven.**  
“Come now,” Aramis protests and he’s most certainly _not_ pouting as he strokes a hand down Porthos’ chest as he cuddles up to his side. “You really won’t tell me of your widow? I told you of mine’s dogs.” 

He’s been trying to coax the story out of Porthos for hours now. After they’d parted ways at the church, Porthos had spent the entire day out – with his widow. Aramis teased him at first, if only because of Aramis’ proclaimed flaws when it comes to Porthos’ method of flirtation, and Porthos had smiled, laughed, but not as loudly as he normally would in the face of the teasing. 

The training was going well, at least. Goading d’Artagnan proved interestingly exciting and fun for Aramis, and Porthos was quick to join in as they sparred behind d’Artagnan and Athos. Between bouts, Aramis would drape across Porthos’ shoulder in much the way he usually did, grin at him, and waggle his eyebrows once or twice to try to entice a juicy detail. 

But it’s been hours now, and at least two rounds of frenzied sex, and still Porthos isn’t saying a word about it. Aramis bats his eyelashes once, lets his hair fall across his face in the way he knows Porthos loves – and sure enough, Porthos reaches out and pushes his hair back and away from his face, fingers lingering along his temple and tucking the hair behind his ear. Aramis smiles at him, closes his eyes and leans into the touch. 

“It’s just…” Porthos trails off, chewing on his lip. “I don’t really feel like it. Talking about her.”

“That bad, huh?” Aramis sighs. “Oh, my love, perhaps we should have switched places. Annoying as the dogs are, the sex isn’t nearly as tiresome. Have you gotten your admission fee yet?” 

Porthos is silent. He pets absently through Aramis’ hair and Aramis frowns, not pouting, if only because he hates to be ignored, hates when Porthos doesn’t rise to his bait, doesn’t rise to his challenge or tease along with him. He’s speculative, his thoughts elsewhere. 

Aramis frowns, too, and snuggles up closer to him, drapes one leg over his hips and swings himself up to straddle him, leaning down to kiss him. Porthos sighs out, and there finally is the touch of a smile – and he kisses him back. 

“It’s only for a few days,” Aramis whispers against his mouth. “Just hang in there.” 

Porthos laughs, but it isn’t the delighted kind of thing – it’s more quiet, more uncertain. Aramis draws back and looks at him and Porthos gives him a helpless look, shrugging. 

“Not tonight. Tell me about yours again.” 

Aramis shrugs and relents, and uses tongue and fingers to coax Porthos’ mind elsewhere. 

It isn’t until several days later, when he sees her amongst the crowd at the challenge arena, that he understands Porthos’ moody kind of silence. Aramis watches the way Porthos looks at her – watches the way he smiles when she looks back at him. 

Aramis suddenly can’t breathe. Later that night, when Alice is long gone, Porthos will cup his face and place a heartbreakingly tender kiss to his mouth, whisper out his name, and pretend that he’s comforting him rather than needing comfort himself. And Aramis will let him, will cling to him for fear of losing him, the only bright spot in his life.

 

 **Eight.**  
After everything, after returning to Paris, after watching Anne – the queen return to her husband’s side, after finding a steady bottle of wine to drink down, after stumbling over the words to confess to Porthos just what happened with Isabelle, he can’t even stomach the idea of letting Porthos hold him. 

He feels cold all over, the love of his life dead in his arms, another potential love already too far away from him. He remembers holding Isabelle as she died. He remembers holding Anne as she whispered out his name, arched up beneath him. 

He can never tell Porthos. 

Porthos, for his part, is only sympathetic. He doesn’t know the full story, doesn’t know just how much happened in the walls of that nunnery. All he knows is Isabelle’s fate, all he knows is that Aramis is heartbroken and longing. He does not know that he longs for two women. 

Still, there’s a gentleness to the way that Porthos holds him, and Aramis leans against him. Grateful for that much. He hasn’t the strength to do anything beyond that, and his heart thuds weak in his chest. He can’t speak. He doesn’t know what to say. 

Porthos says, “I’m sorry.” 

It’s quiet, it’s not nearly enough – but it feels like a balm and Aramis closes his eyes, lets himself cry. 

Porthos waits until the tears are spent before he turns towards him again, brushes his thumb over his cheek and wipes away the lingering tears. Aramis closes his eyes to it. 

“Could you…?” he begins. 

Porthos nods. “Sure.” 

Porthos leans in to kiss him – and Aramis instantly regrets the request, instantly regrets it. He sees Isabelle dead in his arms. But more than that – he sees Anne. He feels her hands on his chest, her lips against his. He feels the way they moved towards her bed, the way she fell back onto the bed and pulled him down with her. The way he went willingly, the way he drowned in her – the way he knew he was already in love with her, too. 

Aramis doesn’t want to forget what it felt like, to hold her, to kiss her, to have her—

And so he turns his face away. Porthos freezes up.

“F- forgive me,” Aramis whispers, catching sight of the way Porthos stares at him, as if he’s been slapped. “I… not now. Please. I’m sorry.” 

Porthos smiles, that half-smile he thinks is dismissive, that he thinks is subtle when all it does is feel like the slam of ice down into Aramis’ heart. Porthos smiles, withdrawing. “I get it… you don’t have to apologize.” 

He takes up Aramis’ hands instead, squeezes, and Aramis wants to cry for it all over again. No, no, he doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get it at all. He’ll never understand – he can’t understand. This is a secret he’ll take to his grave – this is something that he’ll want for the rest of his life and never have again, no matter how desperately he thinks of her now. He doesn’t want to forget it, the way she felt in his arms, the way it felt to kiss her. 

“You’ve been through a lot. I understand.” Porthos is smiling at him – painfully gentle, as if afraid that Aramis will break. All Aramis wants is for Porthos to break him – but all he wants is to remember what it felt to have Anne in his arms. Just for a moment longer. Just for a little longer. 

 

 **Nine.**  
At first, he’s able to move past it, he’s able to fall into Porthos’ arms and feel like he belongs there – feel that he was so deeply in love that he could never stop. Porthos was always there, holding him, stroking his fingers through his hair. Aramis almost began to be happy again. 

And then he learned of the queen’s pregnancy. 

Months pass, as they often do – and Aramis knows that he’s withdrawn. He knows that Porthos worries – he can see it in the way he looks at him, sees it in the way he almost always reaches out for him and thinks better of it instead. 

He reaches for Porthos sometimes, but their moments together are brief and unsatisfying – Aramis often withdrawing even in that. Eventually, they stop entirely. 

He tried to apologize at first, but Porthos had only smiled at him and shook his head. (“I get it,” he’d said to him, and even if he didn’t know the full story, even if it was a mess and Aramis couldn’t tell him anything, there was a gentleness to Porthos’ face that proved he at least understood the weight of Isabelle’s death. “You’re in mourning. Just don’t let it hold you back forever.”) 

But months just continue to pass. He can’t kiss Porthos, he can’t have Porthos, he can’t laugh with Porthos – so long as he knows that he would have to lie. He can’t allow for it – the idea of having Porthos hold him down, of having Porthos hurt him, or treat him kindly, drive into him, try to make him forget—

To _use_ Porthos, all the while Porthos never knowing or understanding why it is that Aramis is distant. 

He can’t do that. Not to Porthos. 

He remembers though, on some nights. The gentle push of his lips against his, the slide of his tongue over his skin. He never forgets how warm Porthos feels, how safe he feels when he’s held in those arms. The way his muscles bunch up when he’s holding him, when he’s using that strength to protect him rather than harm him. H doesn’t forget the way his smile touches his eyes, crinkles them up in the corners. He doesn’t forget the curve of every scar, the curve of his cock, jutting slightly to the left, or the callused warmth of his hands folding over him. He doesn’t forget any of it, that touch, that smile, that rare joy of being known so perfectly and completely. He doesn’t forget the feel of fingers curling in his beard and tugging. He doesn’t forget the quiet murmur of his own name against his mouth as Porthos leans in to kiss him. 

He can’t forget any of that.

“Do you love her that much?” Porthos asks one night, another night when Porthos almost leans in and kisses him, almost whispers out the details of the pretty girl he’d gone home with the night before. Almost pulls Aramis to him again like things were as they were, as if Aramis wasn’t weighed down with the love of someone unreturned. 

Aramis startles, looks up at him in alarm.

Porthos is calm as he clarifies, “Charlotte Mellendorf.” 

“Ah,” Aramis breathes out, remembering too late Athos’ lie. He thinks of Anne, so far away from him. He smiles, thin and uncertain. “Yes. I suppose I do.” 

“It’s been months, Aramis,” Porthos says, gentle – soothing. Far too understanding when he doesn’t understand a damn thing.

“Do you think I can just forget?” Aramis almost snaps, tenses up. Porthos doesn’t withdraw, but there’s a kind of shudder that closes over his eyes and Aramis knows that he’s upset him. He swallows thickly, looks down and thread his hands together, clenching tight. “I… can’t.” 

“No. I suppose not.” 

“I want to be with her, Porthos. So terribly. But I never can. I know it, and yet I still wish for it.” He looks up at him, wanting to confess it all – wanting to be honest, wanting to be worthy of Porthos’ love and loyalty. He’s drowning with no hope of saving. “Have you ever felt that? Wanting to be with someone – and it simply can’t be no matter how badly you dream of it?” 

Porthos says nothing for a long moment, just looks down – and Aramis remembers too late all the loss, all the pain in Porthos’ own life, the lost lovers and would-be lovers. Remembers his confession about Charon. Remembers the way he’d cried about Alice when he thought that Aramis hadn’t seen him. Remembers him leaving Flea behind. Remembers the way he’d looked at Aramis when Aramis turned him so many times that Porthos had stopped asking, had stopped assuming – had retreated back into simple friendship and camaraderie. 

“Forgive me,” he says, his voice thick. “Forgive me, I forgot myself.” 

Porthos says nothing and doesn’t look at him, hands folded together for a moment. He studies them, thumbs rubbing together absently, a crossing, lacing pattern. It’d almost be comforting if Aramis didn’t know that this was as close to fidgeting as Porthos gets. 

“It’s fine,” Porthos says at last. 

“It’s not,” Aramis replies, miserable. 

“It was a foolish question on my part,” Porthos insists, and does look up at Aramis after a moment. His expression is completely closed off. He tries to keep his voice light, Aramis knows, but there’s a note of desperation, an edge of unhappiness that creeps in and Aramis hates that he hears it at all. He knows how Porthos worries for him. “Of course you’d love her. Of course you still do. You love so many, Aramis – it’s no wonder that your heart should ache for every person you’ve lost. You love them.” 

_I fell in love with you, too,_ Aramis wants to say – and doesn’t. 

 

 **Ten.**  
“I’m glad for you,” Porthos tells him in private later, after Aramis has gotten his hair back into order, after he’s changed his clothes and gotten back into the swing of things. After he’s gotten the smell of Marguerite from his hair and clothes – his mind flitting back to the gentle half minute in which he’d actually been able to hold his son. It’s a balm for his frayed nerves, frayed for so long over these past months – and not even close to being enough. He knows he should stay away. But he can’t forget about him – not his son. 

He looks at Porthos, lifting his eyebrows in confusion, silently asking for that explanation. 

“Your new lady,” Porthos clarifies, smiling a little – and he looks so damn earnest, so damn genuine in that moment, that it nearly breaks Aramis’ heart all over again. He smiles at him, that same smile that Aramis has loved for all the years he’s known him – that same smile that made Aramis’ heart stop seven years ago when they first met and Porthos finally, finally smiled at him. Porthos smiles and says, “I’d worried for a while – that, well. I’m glad. You deserve to be happy.” 

Porthos smiles at him, soft and genuine still – and Aramis almost cries at the sham of it. Happiness. A joke, now, a distant dream. Aramis knows what it must seem to Porthos. Knows what the last few months have meant for them: Porthos presented with no clarification, no explanation. Half a year of silence and isolation. Before that, months of avoidance and withdrawal. Just left to believe that Aramis had moved on, that Aramis was no longer interested. That it was Porthos’ fault. 

He wants to tell him – the words weigh down on his tongue. It wasn’t Porthos – he wanted someone else, he wanted her and couldn’t have her and the last thing he wanted, the last thing he could possibly do, was use Porthos – especially when Porthos wouldn’t and couldn’t even know. But what could Porthos interpret it as anything other than having moved on from Porthos? 

And Porthos, who stayed by his side, who could still smile at him like this, who could still be happy for him for seeming to have moved on, to finally get back into the swing of things. And he couldn’t even tell him the reason, couldn’t even tell him the heavy weight of joy and pain in being able to hold his son for the first time, kissing a woman not because of the overflow of joy and love for her, but rather for the crushing weight on his heart for a young infant. 

In another life, he’d have pulled Porthos to his bed, pushed him down, climbed over him, and recounted with words and demonstrations everything he’d done to Marguerite. But he isn’t thinking of her – he’s thinking of a little baby that can never be truly his. In another life, he could be in love with Porthos and happy. In another life, he could remember that feeling of effervescence the first time that he slept with Porthos, the first time Porthos kissed him – that feeling he now knows as the deep, uncompromising love that can never truly be his.

He envisions telling Porthos the truth now – putting him in that danger. And, worse, seeing the look of betrayal on his face when he realizes that he’s kept this secret inside of him for so long, nearly a year now – the act of treason itself, the act of falling in love. The pregnancy. The child. He envisions Porthos’ anger, his frustration – his heartbreak on Aramis’ behalf, because his beautiful Porthos has only ever worn his heart on his sleeve, has only ever taken everyone at face value, never able to understand why others should hide and lie so much. He envisions telling Porthos, that satisfying moment of clarity at finally being understood, at Porthos finally understanding just how loved and cherished he truly is – followed by that crushing guilt of what he’s done to him. 

He could tell Porthos all this. 

He swallows down a thick lump and jerks his head in a way he hopes Porthos will know is a nod. He could tell Porthos everything. He could drop their foreheads together, breathe him in, share the air between them. He could whispers out the words, that he loves him, that he adores him, that he only wishes to protect him. He could say these words and tell Porthos everything, anger him and beg for his forgiveness. 

He could tell Porthos everything. 

“Thank you,” he says instead, and leaves it at that.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found on [my tumblr.](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/)


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